


I Like the Way She Dance

by lamentforboromir



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:47:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamentforboromir/pseuds/lamentforboromir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They go to a club not because he likes to dance, but because Newton, for some inexplicable reason, does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Like the Way She Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marchingjaybird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARY!! HAVE SOME PORN STARRING A RON PERLMAN CHARACTER!
> 
> So this came about because Mary and I were headcanoning about Hannibal and Newt, and how Newt is canonically the worst dancer ever and that Hannibal would absolutely love it. And then came wall-fucking, because hello size kink. 
> 
> A huge thank you to the lovely Chrissy for helping me beta. All mistakes and awkward phrasing are mine. For the best trashy feel, I recommend listening to Tyga's "Rack City" on repeat. It's what I did while writing the stupid thing. 
> 
> Title from Young Solar's song of the same name.
> 
> Here's hoping you enjoy, Mary!!

They go to a club not because he likes to dance, but because Newton, for some inexplicable reason, does.

(Newton had told him last week, just a little past drunk and sprawled out on Hannibal’s couch, that he hasn’t gone out dancing in over seven years. That he misses it sometimes. That he has some wonderful dance moves. When Hannibal had happened upon Newton’s frail colleague the next day, he’d sought confirmation, only to be answered with a somewhat disgusted, “Dear _Lord_ , never take Newton out _dancing_ , he has no idea what dancing is supposed to _look like_.” The colleague in question had promptly left with a huff, muttering to himself about Newton and this insane death wish of a relationship.)

(Hannibal had ignored him.)

The lights are low and the music is loud, and Hannibal notes the way Newton’s eyebrows furrow when they reach the door. Newton pauses just outside. “Are you sure you’re okay with this, Hannibal?” he asks, quirking a look upwards. “Do you really want to go dancing?”

Hannibal lets out a sigh, puts his hands on his hips as he gives Newton a once-over. His hair is wild as always, but his clothes… Last week, he had finally given into Hannibal’s wishes to buy him some nice clothes, let him wheedle his way into finding a good enough tailor so that he didn’t always look like a punk teenager. 

And Hannibal has to smile, because they do fit him _extraordinarily_ well. He’s finally got Newton wearing some color, even if the cobalt blue of his dress shirt is understated, and those charcoal dress pants are hugging his hips in a way that Hannibal won’t let himself dwell on just yet. 

He finally gives a slight smirk, an upwards quirk of the lip, and he says, “Nah, kid, I won’t be dancing. But you go on ahead. This night is all for you.”

Newton gets this smile on his face, one that’s bright and genuine and Hannibal forces himself to stifle the feeling that threatens to overtake him. Instead, he pushes his way toward the doors and enters.

The doors are heavy and the music is _loud_ ; much louder than Hannibal remembers. Newton has his eyes trained on the dance floor and Hannibal’s looking to the sides, watching people at the bar, women looking up at him through thick lashes. The club is alive with a heady thrum of bass, pounding from giant speakers against thin walls.

It’s not Hong Kong’s biggest club, but it’s at least a distance away from the boneslums, and it’s reputable. Hannibal has taken his men here a handful of times, treated them to nights of dancing and free booze. Even during the kaiju war and in its dusty aftermath ten weeks later, Hannibal can’t believe the way people will simply pack in to dance the night away.

He thinks maybe it was an escape.

He notes the way the colored strobe lights reflect off of Newton’s new shirt.

With a sigh, Hannibal leans in over Newton’s shoulder, fingers just barely pressing into his arm. “You’re going to show me how you dance, huh, kid?”

Newton’s eyes don’t leave the dance floor, the throng of people moving against each other in synchrony, impossibly close. “Guess I’ll just have to,” he says, head leaning back towards Hannibal, and he doesn’t break his gaze. “Haven’t gone out dancing in a few years, though, so I might be rusty.”

“Wouldn’t be a deal-breaker for me, kid,” Hannibal says, and he lets himself smile and Newton begins moving his head in time with the music. “I’ll be sitting down just past the bar. Dance your heart out and let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

If Newton hears him, he doesn’t seem to acknowledge. He nods his head, but Hannibal doesn’t know if it’s an agreement or his way of keeping up with the beat. With a sigh that he can only call fond, he gives Newton a light clap on the shoulder and makes his way toward a table.

He’s got two of his men sitting at a table near the back, cast in blue shadows as they nurse their drinks, eyes wary and guarded. Hannibal looks around as a precaution but finds no one approaching their table. He grabs a seat, eyes seeking out Newton on the dance floor from behind red-tinted glasses.

“Want a drink, boss?” a gruff voice asks from behind him. Hannibal turns to look at Lau, an incredibly smart and capable man if lacking in personality. His knuckles crack and he nudges toward his companion. “Zheng got you a scotch.”

Hannibal gives a curt nod, takes the proffered drink in hand. Lau looks visibly uncomfortable, constantly cracking his knuckles and checking over his shoulder every few moments. He was never one for the club scene. 

Granted, neither was Hannibal. But he is too busy trying to find his reason for coming here out on the dance floor.

Spotting one of the only white men in the club isn’t any great trouble, even amongst the gyrating masses. Newt stands near the edge of the dance floor, eyes darting between dancing couples. He takes a few steps into the crowd, glasses reflecting the pulsing strobe lights. He’s glancing from side to side as he walks, moving his shoulders as in tune with the lusty rhythm.

Hannibal leans back, drink in hand, throws an arm over the back of his chair as he watches Newton move in time with the music. It starts out slow, a vague motion of his hips as the bass beats on. It’s tangible, the way the electronic drums fill the small club, pounding in Hannibal’s ears. He takes a sip of scotch and follows the movement of Newton’s hips from a distance. He’s going to have to ask Newton to dance for him like this when they’re alone.

When he’s taking another sip, Hannibal watches Newton’s arms rise up and join the motion of his shoulders. Newton is softly swaying, small hips rolling in a hypnotizing way. He’s getting a smile on his face, growing wider when he leans into it, shoulders moving in faster circles as the rhythm picks up. Hannibal can see the way Newton takes a step, moves forward and _grinds_ , head bopping in time with the music. His face is open and his smile is brilliant, and Hannibal takes another sip because he’s quite enjoying the show.

Newton keeps dancing and Hannibal keeps watching, eyes trained on the smallest movement of that small body, those hips that Hannibal has become addicted to. For the most part, the crowd doesn’t seem to notice this small German man, though they match the movement of his hips, exchanging smiles and pushing back with the rhythm. The music doesn’t change, all electric energy and slow thrums, and he has Zheng fetch him another Scotch.

It’s when he takes his second sip that he notices Newton taking another step forward. He’s lifting himself up on one leg and kicking, and Hannibal is, for a moment, confused. He watches as Newton’s shoulders start moving wildly, circular motion going outwards and upwards. His arms are now above his head and his hips start moving in wild shakes as he balances on his other foot. How he’s staying upright, Hannibal has no idea, but Newton is beaming as his body bobs from side to side.

Newton is positively flailing, and Hannibal has to rest one hand in front of his face so he doesn’t bark out a laugh.

Captivated by Newton’s terrible dancing, the way he kicks out his other leg and shakes it as though it’s an uncontrollable spasm, Hannibal almost misses the “Why are we here again?” spoken from behind him. He knows Lau hates the loud music, hates the pulsing lights and wishes he could be spending his night any other way. But Hannibal can’t tear his eyes away from how Newton is shaking his ass in the least coordinated way and he doesn’t quite care if his smile creeps into his voice. “We’re just here for a night of fun, Lau,” he says, and watching Newton flail like that, he means it.

Hannibal doesn’t keep track of the time, doesn’t care because he’s chuckling as Newton leans forward and then back again, arms a whirl of motion and completely out of synch with the music. To his credit, he only gets a few raised eyebrows as he dances on, though Hannibal snickers at each person who simply shrugs, dancing around Newton as he tries his best to throw himself into the music. Hannibal is taken by every move, every shake of each arm and the uncontrollable gyrating of those damned hips.

Newton had clearly been lying to him earlier, but Hannibal doesn’t mind. For all his terrible dancing, his boyfriend is really cute.

He does allow himself to laugh when he nearly trips, but Newton’s smile doesn’t fade, and Hannibal lets himself enjoy the moment.

Hannibal has been done with his second drink for some time when Newt finds the table, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and hands on his hips. Thin beads of sweat collect at his forehead and his glasses are slightly fogged over. Newton is saying something about the way he was dancing and how he’s getting tired, but Hannibal mostly doesn’t hear it over the way Newton’s chest is rising and falling, heaving for breath in that tight shirt that Hannibal spent so much money on.

And Hannibal thinks, _I want to destroy it_.

Keeping his eyes fixed on Newton, he rises from his chair. Newton’s smile falls just a fraction as Hannibal raises himself to his full height, hands moving to cross over his chest. “Zheng, Lau—go ahead and take off. I think we’re done here.”

He doesn’t look behind him to see if Zheng or Lau hear him, to see if they move. He takes a step towards Newton and he asks, voice pitched low, “You ready to get out of here?”

And suddenly, Newton is _beaming_.

*

They don’t make it to the bedroom.

Hannibal can barely make it into his apartment before he’s got Newton backed up against a wall, arms blocking him in as he leans down to claims his lips. The small groan that Newton gives as Hannibal moves a thigh between his legs is gorgeous, and he presses into him, breath hot against an open mouth. Newton’s hands are gripping Hannibal’s shoulders, mouth open wide as Hannibal moves against him, hissing at the friction.

Newton grinds against his thigh, dress pants pulled tight across his erection, and Hannibal’s enjoying the way he pants. Hannibal ducks his head, biting bruises into Newton’s neck and Newton is gasping, “Hannibal, _Jesus_ , Hannibal, why am I still wearing _clothes_ —”

Hannibal’s got one arm braced over Newton’s shoulder, boxing him in while his other hand reaches for his pocket. Drawing out his knife, he slices through the thin material of Newton’s shirt in one quick motion. Newton’s got his head pressed against the wall, throat exposed and the cobalt blue falls around his shoulders. Hannibal would lament the loss of such an expensive purchase as he pockets the knife, but he’s got his teeth on Newton’s collarbone and the whine he receives is more than enough distraction. 

He’s trailing one hand up and down Newton’s colorful chest, teases at the belt buckle before he captures those kissed-red lips once again. Holding him in place with his hips, Hannibal slowly undoes the buckle as his tongue chases into Newton’s gasping mouth.

“I swear to god, Hannibal,” Newton breathes, voice shaky but determined. “If you don’t fuck me _right now_ , I will _never_ speak to you again, I promise, I absolutely won’t.”

Newton trails off as Hannibal takes him in a firm grasp through the fabric of his pants. He gives a squeeze before lowering the zipper, slowly, tortuously, and Newton keeps babbling about how much he _needs_ this right now, Hannibal, you wouldn’t even let me _blow you_ last night, what the _fuck_.

Hannibal gives him a bruising kiss before backing up just a fraction, and Newton seems to whine at the loss of friction. Hannibal can’t help but smirk at the pout. “If you want me to fuck you into the wall,” he begins, voice gruffer than he means it to be, “you’re going to shut up and take your pants off, you little brat.”

Newton nods, deadly serious, and he kicks off his shoes with a determination that has Hannibal grinning. He shimmies out of those charcoal grey pants, shoves down his boxers and looks back up at Hannibal, hopeful. The shirt is still hanging off of him, a small cascade of cobalt on his shoulders and Hannibal surges down to kiss him in a messy tangle of tongues. He’s got Newton pressed against him, erection flat against his stomach. Hannibal doesn’t care if Newton ruins his clothes tonight. Hasn’t cared since he and Newton started this thing a month ago. All he can hear is Newton panting up against him and he moves to unzip his pants.

“No, no, no,” Newton says, all a rush of air. He scrambles for the crotch of Hannibal’s pants, undoes the button and pulls down the zipper as fast his fingers will let him. It’s always gotten Hannibal, how much Newton _wants_ him like this, and when Newton’s fingers slip down the sides of his hips, shoving down his slacks, Hannibal lets himself lose it.

With a growl, Hannibal grabs the bottoms of Newton’s thighs, hoists him up until they’re eye-level and _there_ , right _there_ , where Hannibal’s pants are undone and his erection is free, the friction burns in a way that keeps him rooted to the spot. Newton wraps his legs around Hannibal’s waist, keens as he pushes back against the rigid line of heat. Watching the rise and fall of breath from Newton’s chest and the way he scrambles to undo Hannibal’s shirt, Hannibal can’t help himself and cradles Newton’s head, crushing their lips together. It’s violent, the way they kiss, and from what Hannibal has seen from Newton, he doesn’t want it any other way.

When they break apart, Hannibal begins rooting around in his coat pocket for that small bottle that Newton had _insisted_ he take everywhere with him, just because it made him hot. Words like “fuck” and “Hannibal” and “ _please_ ” keep falling from Newton’s lips, circular speech that can’t find a solid place in the air close between them. And then when Hannibal’s attempting to unscrew the cap one-handed, he says, “If you don’t get inside me _right now_ , I’m going to die, it’s actually going to kill me, Hannibal, and I will come back as a ghost and I will—”

One finger is enough to shut Newton the fuck up.

His breathing is sharp, uneven, and Hannibal has to adjust the both of them so he can move without crushing him. The first is a quick exercise in tolerance, and by the time he adds a second, Newton is already muttering, “Yes, yes please, please just one more, come on, I’m ready, I can take this,” and Hannibal has to kiss him to get him to _stop talking_.

He adds the third and crooks his fingers just so, just enough so that Newton’s legs are tightening around him, a groan dragging across his lips. He fucks Newton lazily with his fingers, and when he pulls out, Hannibal has to take a moment to line himself up correctly so that he doesn’t crush Newton when he slides back in.

Newton cries out anyway.

Hannibal sets a brutal pace, in and out again, and Newton keeps babbling words that he can’t make out, hanging on the air as his fingers dig into Hannibal’s shoulders. Hannibal is holding Newton’s thighs, creamy white and twitching with the strain, open for all Hannibal has to give. Newton rolls his hips as best as he can against the wall, and when Hannibal pushes back in, he lets out a strangled cry, utterly wrecked and breathless.

Newton’s glasses are fogging up and Hannibal doesn’t think he’ll last long.

He gives another few thrusts, his pace picks up and oddly, he’s hit by an image of Newton dancing, wild and reckless amongst a crowd of locals. And when Newton picks up his hips, moves in Hannibal’s grip, he has no choice but to slam back in, as hard as he can go.

Newton is choking on his name as he tenses up, gripping Hannibal’s shoulders with all the strength left in his arms, and when he releases, his mouth forms a soft, whining prayer.

Watching Newton tighten and loosen all at once, it’s too much, and Hannibal gives a few more frantic thrusts, burying his face in the crook of Newton’s neck, and he bites him when he finally comes.

It’s warm and wet between Newton’s thighs and Hannibal has to take a breath, take another before he feels he can loosen his grip on Newton’s legs and rise to face him. When he does, Newton is open and his smile is an exhausted thing. Hannibal can’t stop himself from kissing it.

“So this whole dancing thing,” Newton begins, and he sounds like he’s just run a marathon, trying to catch his breath. “Good idea. Really good idea.”

Hannibal can only shake his head. “Kid,” he says, and even he can’t deny the way his voice wells up with affection, “you can’t dance for shit.”

Newton barks out a laugh, though it seems like an effort. “That stuff?” he asks, all smiling lips and wild hair, and Hannibal knows he loves him, has always known. “That was just practice. I just haven’t shown you all of my best moves.”


End file.
